Mourning
by Silk and Shells
Summary: In the quiet of the night, Faramir mourns; Denethor speaks with him. Suckish summary, even more suckish story. R&R.


Denethor laid still in his bed, cloaked deeply in his furs, listening to the sound of his son's cries a room away. Faramir had always been the lesser; always been the most sensitive one. Boromir had cried, at first, when Finduilas had passed. . but he had stopped three days in. Faramir, however, had been having nightmares non-stop for fortnights; waking up sobbing. Denethor had not comforted him, lying in his bed until the sobs cut themselves off as Faramir drifted back into the world of nightmares and he would be able to sleep again.

Denethor let a quiet breathy sigh escape his lips as he went from lying flat on his back onto his side, allowing himself to bury his head in a pillow for only a moment before he rolled out of his bed as the boy's sobs continued. This was tiring; it had to stop. He, too, experienced the hurt, the tears of Finduilas .. but not like this. Never like this. Wrapping his furs closer about his cold, tired body, he swept down the hallway and knocked on the door harshly, thrice. Acknowledging his father's knock, Faramir stiffened in his bed and immediately tried to stop sobbing, but he ended up choking on his tears.

After a moment, he called out, "C-Come in."

He swept in quietly, an intimidating figure in the darkness of his son's room. Seeing the tears on his son's face, illuminated only by the soft light of the moon that shone through the window, made him feel only further disgusted.

"Sit up," he ordered coolly, a sneer crossing his face as his son stumbled up against the headboard, wiping futilely at his tears.

"This cannot continue, Faramir," he growled, seating himself on the edge of the boy's bed.

"I-I am sorry, m-my Lord," he sniffled, sweeping at his face again. Denethor slapped his hand away sharply, murmuring something like _no manners _as he removed a handkerchief and patted it roughly against his son's tears until the cloth was fully damp.

"I-I .. I do not mean to, My Lord, surely you-you know that?" said Faramir, and Denethor winced as he sniffled loudly again.

"I just miss her," the boy wept, and began to cry anew.

Denethor had never been good at comfort; he only ever dared to comfort Boromir and Finduilas and even then was uncomfortable with such awkward situations.

He would not comfort the boy. He would not. He simply stared, focused, at a point above the boy's head, focusing on nothing.

The tears traveled faster. Denethor's hand twitched in his sleeve. Faramir sniffled loudly. Denethor chanced a glance at him.

He should not have even tried; the pitiful, wet face of the boy was too much. The anger in his chest had stopped boiling like fire, and he slowly reached out a cold hand to rest it on the boy's head awkwardly.

Thick hair poured over his fingers and he tangled his hand in them slowly. It had worked; his son seemed so shocked and nearly frightened that he immediately stopped crying.

"I, as well, and you know this. But your brother-"

"I'm not Boromir!" the boy shouted, pulling away. "I'm not - I'm not perfect, or strong, or brave like he is! I cry and he doesn't and I'm weak like he isn't! I am not Boromir!" he repeated, choking on a sob and beginning to cough.

Denethor watched him for a moment, chest tightening oddly, but as the boy bent over and tried to catch his breath, still coughing, he almost felt concerned and placed his hand at the boy's back. "Shh. You will make yourself sick if you keep doing this, boy."

"W-What do you care?" sobbed Faramir, coughing loudly.

Denethor's chest tightened further. "What do you mean?"

"You do not care about me! All you care about is Boromir! No one else! Nothing else. So why do you care now?"

Denethor felt odd; he did not respond, rubbing his lesser son's back in circular motions. Slowly, the coughs and sobs died off, leaving only very few sniffles.

He wiped his son's tears away, staring at his hand oddly when it came back wet. He still felt unusual; he did not feel like this with Faramir ever, only with Boromir.

"I care about you," he said quietly, not entirely sure if he was telling the truth. Faramir, by the looks of it, did not believe him either.

"I miss your mother, Faramir. I think about her every night, but you cannot keep crying like this." he spoke quietly, awkwardly, trying to be as soothing and comforting as possible.

Faramir looked up at him. "Really? You- You think about her, too?"

"Of course I do, boy. I loved her," he said, shifting himself into a more comfortable position so that he was pressed against the headboard, arm entwined around Faramir and the other resting against his son's cheek, gently wiping his tears away.

He had only ever been in such positions with Boromir, and he had surprised himself, never imagining to be in the same position he had been in many times with Boromir with his lesser son.

They sat there in silence for hours, Denethor rubbing his son's back while he was lulled into a silent, dreamless sleep against his father's chest. Denethor, too, eventually fell into the snug arms of Morpheus. When morning came, the servants would smile upon entering the room and gently leave them to their peaceful rest after pulling and tucking the blankets snugly around the father and son.

The next day, all was back to normal - however, neither had forgotten the moment and neither of them would ever relive it, and Denethor would feel sorrow for not doing so, many years later, as he fell into madness.

**What. What is this. I don't even. I do not understand this. What. Review and tell me what you think of this monstrosity. I DO NOT LISTEN TO TIME LINES. So. If you like clicking buttons, the REVIEW button is the right button for you! *cheesy commercial grin***


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